The Influence of Loyalty
by crackers4jenn
Summary: A sort of followup to The Influence of Stress. This is yet another Dwightish fic.


**1.**

It starts with Dwight arriving to work half an hour early, before even Michael. He believes that every employee, no matter their place on the totem pole, should show their devotion by the work hours they accumulate. Besides, he's always been a fan of the mantra _The early bird catches the worm._ In fact, he has the same saying hand painted on to a tattered piece of birken by his Great Aunt Magna, framed and hung at the rear entrance of his and Mose' beet farm.

Needless to say, it's inspiring.

He's only just got himself situated at his desk, chair lowered to a serviceable position, the computer still starting up with its blips and beeps and other various _fffvvvvrrrrrr_ noises (Dwight sounds them out in his head as they progress along), when Angela enters the office.

"Oh," she says, like she's surprised to see him. Like they haven't had this exact same encounter every day since the day Dwight first started working here, only this time, only recently, it's _different_. She clutches her woman's purse a little tighter, throws her head back like a tamed wildcat poised to attack should it be even slightly provoked, and says, rather airily, "Good morning, Dwight."

"Angela," he, in return, acknowledges. Solemn like a warrior.

With a nod, one that he can't tell whether it means _Congratulations, you passed my aptitude exam_ or _Maybe it's my day to PMS, so you'd better watch your back_, she heads towards her desk.

Anyway. He doesn't care. He arranges his pens and pencils, aligns his stapler with his phone, makes sure his collection of bobbleheads are lined in a perfect, mostly symmetrical row.

A shadow falls over his desk and he knows, he _knows_, even without having to look up who it is. Superior motion-detection skills, not to mention that fact that he's an extreme expert at gauging shadows--has been since infantry.

"Aren't you a little too old to be playing with toys?"

Dwight glares up at Jim. Who he _HATES._ "Uhm, newsflash, paper boy--" (the obvious insult is implied) "--they're not _toys_."

"They're manufactured by toy companies. _That_ makes them toys."

With his most fierce look, Dwight attempts to knock Jim Halpert down a notch or two. Via his outstanding verbal skills. "_False._ These are manufactured by The Bobblehead LLC--a place, in fact, that has been highly successful in the polyresin business for _years_. All they _make_ is bobblehead dolls. I should know. I toured their factory, _then_ sent in an application."

This catches Jim's attention. "An application? To... make bobbleheads?"

"Why not? Every lass needs a hobby."

Jim blinks. Unsusceptible to most, but Dwight catches it. "And how's that working out for you, Dwight?"

There's a slight pause. "Still pending."

Admitting that is like admitting some small defeat. Like balancing out the playing field, putting them on even ground.

"I see. Well," Jim says, as he makes to sit down at his desk. "Good luck with that."

Dwight has no response.

**2.**

Dwight stands outside Michael's closed office door, listening.

He can hear a low-toned voice, baritone, clearly feminine--which defies logic as Dwight knows it completely. No one, not a single person, has entered that office since this morning, Michael aside, so unless they came in through the second story window, or unless wizardry is somehow involved, that voice shouldn't exist.

Yet it does, muffled and... not really clear, floating towards him through the small crack in the door in waves of varying volumes.

It makes sense, suddenly, to peer through Michael's blinds. Perhaps then he could get a visual on the suspect. He does so, noticing but not caring of the attention he is attracting, trying to spot the culprit. Sacrifices are to be made, even reputable ones. _Especially_ reputable ones.

All he sees, his glasses slightly askew and pressed against the glass, is Michael on the phone.

Correction. Michael on the _speaker_phone.

Upon closer inspection, which involves him sliding his face down an inch so that he can see better, he realizes it's... Jan Levinson.

He pulls back, his mind racing.

_Suspicious._

**3.**

He's in the breakroom, standing in front of the vending machine, eyes diligently scanning the many rows of offered snackfood.

The door to his left swings open, a sudden infiltration of noise from the office. It closes just as quickly, the sound sucked out like a vacuum with it. Dwight looks towards the offending intruder, expecting Kevin to be on yet another bathroom break, or maybe Oscar, but sees a portrait of Malfoy-blonde hair, pinched features, and at least a 2-foot height differential instead.

It's Angela.

She stops a little, very promptly, when she realizes she's not the only one in the room, but is pacing forward at an impressive speed the next second (how women can walk accurately on heels is something that endlessly evades him), almost as if that brief pause was imagined.

"Dwight," she greets. Emotionless, like a true professional. Because it's not as if they're at a social engagement--here he glares out the pane glass window where Pam is fraternizing with _Jim_ in plain sight for all to witness (DISGUSTING and OFFENSIVE)--where causerie and conversation is required, where it's mandatory.

He shows her the same respect back, a flatly spoken, "Angela." Hardly even bothers to spare her a second glance while doing so, instead focusing on the vending machine before him. The glow illuminated inside is suspiciously bright, and he wonders, gaze piercing, if perhaps the light is _so_ bright that it's actually melting the chocolate...from the inside. Like an incubator. Angela stands directly behind him, patiently waiting her turn, and he drops in three quarters. Everything in there is grossly overpriced, and he makes a mental note to discuss having costs cut in half with Michael, pressing B-12. Despite his worries that maybe the freakish glow of the overhead bulb has melted the chocolate to the point of being unsalvageable, he settles for a Baby Ruth.

As he reaches down to retrieve it, grabbing his change as well, he hears a woman's voice.

"Baby Ruth."

It's nothing but a simple observation, though he detects a slight twinge of approval.

With the candybar in one hand, dime being fisted into his pocket in the other, he stands at full height. Facing Angela. And offers up, somewhat defensively, because you never know who is an ally and who is an enemy, "The chocolate cleanses my pallet."

The barest of smiles makes her lips twist upwards, and he wouldn't have even noticed if her eyes hadn't suddenly started to burn at him a little brighter. Like asteroids. "I know," she agrees.

He feels a sudden, not altogether unpleasant sensation racing through his body, his veins, his _being_. It's mildly intoxicating, which is why Dwight matches her small grin with his own and says, with uncharacteristic brashness, "Have a nice day, Angela."

He hears her words ring, unmistakable, throughout the rest of the day.

_Thank you, Dwight._

**4.**

Before his scheduled lunch break (though Dwight takes only half the allowed time, which he believes is the most beneficial thing he can do for Dunder Mifflin, besides offer them his guaranteed protection and also make them a crapload of money with his formidable sales technique) he's required to give another personal interview. It's what the documentary people ask him to do, even though he mostly thinks it's a colossal waste of company time. Clearly, though, these people want and respect his opinion. Who is he to deny them that?

He sits in the familiar chair against the conference room wall, adjusts himself to a comfortable, flattering position, one where he can also defend himself were there the chance that an assailant broke into the room, armed with any number of feasible weaponry. Knives, guns, bow staffs. Blades. Swords. A bayonet. Boomerangs. High explosives.

Steve, the lackey-technician, stands off-camera and prepares to fire questions at Dwight while Rob, the cameraman, and Josh, the sound buffer guy, do their respective jobs.

"Alright, people, lets make this quick," Dwight announces, fixing the microphone attached to his tie. "I have an actual job to do, and it isn't entertain the unseen masses with a witty blurb."

"Yeah, fine. Whatever." Steve flips through his clipboard, makes sure Rob's giving him the okay to start. He is. "Anything happen today you feel like sharing?"

Dwight shifts. The morning's events play through his head. One thing, as usual, comes through loud and clear. "Jim Halpert is a _complete menace_." As always, it feels good to say that out loud. Almost spiritually cleansing. "The number one reason he hasn't been fired yet is because Michael believes in giving everyone a long enough chance to prove themselves. _Mistake_. The only thing Jim Halpert needs is severance pay." He considers this. "An unemployment ad. Resumes. Maybe an account at to help him find another job elsewhere. Preferably," he decides, "somewhere out of state. Like _Michigan_."

A smirk into the camera ends the sentence, and it ends it well.

"Okay," Steve says. More shuffling through the papers on the clipboard. "You, uh. It says you talked to Angela. What about?"

"Classified. That is _personal_ information--"

"Listen, man. All we gotta do is pop the tape into the--"

"_Fine_." The depth of which he loathes these people is woven through the lone word, giving it impressive strength. "Words were exchanged, correct. Congratulations," he sneers, "you managed to capture an insignificant conversation between two diligent employees--"

"Dwight," Steve sighs, and he can see Josh, stupid simpleton, let out a noiseless sigh as well. Lowpaid underachievers. "You know that's not how we do this. Give it to me script-style, alright? I wanna get this done before lunch."

Glare? _Intensified. _

"The accountant," he pushes through bared teeth, "is a respectable ally."

**5.**

Dwight invites himself into Michael's office without a preemptive courtesy knock. Sometime he just has too much on his mind to worry about things like that.

The immediate sight of Michael with an Indian Chief hat on his head that is ridiculously covered in red feathers only serves as a slight distraction. Not nearly enough, however, to sidetrack him in his mission.

"How's Jan?" he asks as casually as he can, shuffling from one foot to another to complete the mirage of innocence.

In this scenario, Michael would be the perp. Dwight the inquisitor. The roles are simple: he seeks out a truth using any means necessary while Michael trembles on his knees, on the ground, at the awesome amount of displayed power that radiates from Dwight, therefore making him successfully spill the beans. Its a win-win situation.

Michael barely glances his way, fumbling with the content of his desk's top drawer. "I don't know, Dwight. How should I know? God, that's just--completely tactless."

Dwight's resolve teeters. Blatant fabrication. An unexpected tactic. "I heard you on the phone with her this morning."

"_Not_ true," Michael insists. "Also? _Creepy._"

"She said she wanted to talk to you--"

"Is that your thing now? Creeping me out with your weird, creepy ways?"

"It sounded important."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't, so just stay out of it and mind your own beeswax, Dwight."

Michael is back to examining the insides of his desk drawer, but Dwight doesn't budge. Sometimes he feels like he is loyal to a fault. Besides, as the interrogator navigating the perp into a confession, he still has work to do. Thus a different ploy. "You could tell me if you wanted."

"_NOT_ gonna happen, not ever."

"Toby says inner-office relationships are--"

"Toby," Michael cuts in with great gusto, "is a liar, and a drunkard, and probably a Republican. And anyway, Jan doesn't work here."

"She's your boss. She's _ALL_ our bosses--"

There's a sharp knock on the door that cuts through his words like a knife, that silences them like gentle suffocation. The door pushes open on its own, revealing along the way... ohh-ho, lookey there. _Jan Levinson_.

"Michael?" she says, like her words serve as the greeting knock on the door, sans the actual knock.

Dwight smirks. He is, after all, a master of perception, and this scenario now spread out before him like a mid-Hallow's Night feast for the gluttonous? It doesn't even take HALF of his perceptibility. "Hello, _Jan._," he says. Heavy emphasis. Zero subtlety.

Michael explodes out of his chair, around his desk, tearing off his Indian Chief hat along the way. "Jan Levinson!" he booms. "What a totally unexpected but pleasantly unassuming surprise!"

Jan stares at Michael through slightly hardened, mostly confused eyes. "Michael, I cleared this with you this morning," she reminds him, speaking slowly. "I _told_ you I was coming, I _specifically_ said--"

Dwight's victory smirk deepens as he turns wildly to Michael, the taste of success bittersweet on his tongue. "I _knew_ it!" he proclaims.

Michael makes a gargled noise, like a struggling fish misplaced out of water.

"Michael?" Jan says. She looks like a mighty lioness, perusing her pride. Also a little crazy. "What's going on here?"

The cameraman moves in mercilessly. Dwight can practically hear the effect of the lens zooming in.

(Schrutes are born into this world with excellent hearing. Eyesight, however...)

"Not a thing," Michael says, "not one single thing. How..." He laughs. Chokes. Whatever. "Why would you think that something--"

"Is it true that the Scranton branch is in imminent danger of downsizing?" Dwight interrupts, down to business. He fixes Jan with a hard gaze, everything about his body language saying that he is deadly serious, but also that he is willing to talk negotiations. At a _price_. "Is that why you're meeting with Michael? To discuss shutting down the office?"

Jan's look softens, but only barely. She still looks crazy. "Is that what you--? Dwight," she says, somewhat appeasingly, "I can tell you, right now, that that's not why I'm here. Currently we have no made-plans to close down the Scranton branch, especially with the effectiveness this branch has turned over the past few months."

"Then why are you here?" Suddenly, something clicks into place. He brightens considerably. "Are you firing Jim Halpert??"

"I'm..." There's some confusion. She turns for help. "Michael?"

Michael obliges, FYI-ing to the camera. "Jim Halpert is not being fired."

"Unfeasible! Jim Halpert can single-handedly be blamed for _every_ mis--"

"Hey, I have an idea, Jan," Michael announces with a conspirative grin. "Why don't you fire Dwight? Let's see how that works out."

Jan looks like she might vomit all over the place. Crazily.

Now that the air has turned uncomfortable (and Dwight is SEETHING with the absurdity that Michael dare throw him to the sharks like a slab of cut up meat) Michael starts to laugh. "Ohh-kay," he says. "Everything's all _WEIRD_ and _AWKWARD_ now. Thank you, Dwight, for that. You can leave now. Take your weird-o vibes with you." He pulls open his office door, stands there with his hand on the knob, just waiting. "This is a meeting for adults only."

"...I am an adult."

"Fine, whatever, just go--" He remembers suddenly that Jan and a couple of camera crews are there, "--get back to work, of course, because that's how we do things around here at Dunder Mifflin! Make tons of money!" The air turns a few degrees more uncomfortable. Michael drops the enthusiasm. "Okay, but seriously. Go."

Jan looks neither at Michael nor Dwight, instead focusing very intently on the ground. Useless woman. Of course, with a backbone the strength of a weak, defenseless jellyfish, which is really no strength at all. Dwight slinks past her, not without letting her know, with the intensity of his gaze, just how very little he likes and respects her.

Although she does have an amazing set of shoulders. For a woman.

**6.**

Barely out Michael's door, just rounding the corner of his desk, he hears _THAT_ voice.

"Good news, Dwight."

"Not really," Dwight complains, flopping into his chair. "Congratulations, Jim, the _ENTIRE_ world likes you. NO ONE will fire you."

Jim stares. "Uh... okay." He glances at one of the three cameras currently filming their conversation, smiling a little. "I guess."

Dwight lets out a loud, tired sigh. "What do you want? I have tons of work to finish because, unlike _some people_ in this office, I don't get by on just my 'good looks'."

"Of course not. So, I was checking out the website of that bobblehead factory you told me about."

"The Bobblehead LLC?"

"Yep, that one exactly."

"And so the good news is... you've successfully navigated your way through Good for you, Jim. Real impressive. I think I'll alert Corporate and tell them what a _phenomenal_ job you do around here."

"It's just... now, and, no, actually, it was Google, but--whatever, that's not the point. I sent in your resume, and guess what? They want to hire you! Effective immediately, _pretty much_ as soon as possible."

His suspicion is deftly aroused. "How do you have my resume?"

"Michael," Jim answers easily and with only minimal delay. "Yeah, he's in on the whole thing. Actually, it was his idea."

"I see..."

"I think you should check your email. They, uh--I think they said something about wanting to send you a 'congratulations', or whatever."

Though overly-cautious that Halpert is luring him into a trick, albeit a weak one, Dwight checks his email. And... yes, there is exactly one email in his inbox, unchecked and waiting to be read. There's also six emails in his spam folder, but he knows those are from Michael, and right now he's in the mood to do nothing but ignore them.

_  
To: From: Mr. Schrute,_

_Thank you for your interest in our company. Looking over your resume, we feel that you would be a good fit. Not just for manufacturing bobbleheads, which we believe you to be competent enough to do, but for all the services you provide. We take martial arts training seriously, as we are a company frequently sought out for vengeance by our competitors. As you are probably well aware of, the Bobblehead industry is full of fierce competition, so we always make sure our potential employees are successful in not only the polyresin business, but the business of protection, security, and loyalty._

_We hope to hear from you soon._

_Cordially,  
Bob L. Head, Bobblehead LLC._

Dwight lets the pride simmer, like mid-afternoon heat roasting in his veins.

"So I guess this'll be your last day," his co-employee says with great despair. "That's... wow, that's too bad."

"Don't be ridiculous, Jim."

Temptation rests like a full meal at the bottom of his gut, warm and savory. And yet. He has a job here. To protect, and to serve.

Pam walks past, a breeze of assaulting aroma. "Congratulations, Dwight," she says.

"I haven't even _ACCEPTED_ anything."

Phyllis' voice rises quietly from behind. "You're leaving?"

"No," he insists.

"He is," Jim cuts in. "It's sad, isn't it?"

"I'm _NOT_--"

"What do you mean, he's leaving?" Stanley asks, never mind the fact that he's on the phone, with a customer, where the entirety of his attention should lie.

"You didn't hear? He just took a job somewhere else. It's unexpected, isn't it? I mean, I don't really know about you, but I always kinda thought Dwight would out-work us all, you know?"

"It's sad," Pam agrees.

"When are you leaving?" Phyllis asks, with mega-concern. "Is there time to throw you a 'going away' party."

Angela, of course, appears out of nowhere, ready to disapprove. "Parties have to be _planned_, Phyllis."

"...I know."

"They don't just happen overnight."

"Overnight?" Michael's voice suddenly rises. He's standing at his open office door with Jan at his side. "We're having an overnight? That has been my #1 thing since, God, since I started working here. Maybe even before. Darnit, though! I didn't bring a sleeping bag!"

"There is _no_ overnight," Angela assures. "Believe me."

Michael stares, his mouth set into a tight line. "What have I told you about throwing that word around? We DO NOT THROW THAT WORD AROUND," he tells the entire office, "UNLESS WE ACTUALLY MEAN IT. God. I've mentioned this before at least, seriously, like a half-dozen times--"

"Michael."

It's Jan, of course, still hanging around.

Michael starts to laugh uncomfortably. "Joke, Jan. That was just a joke. Never, ever had I wanted to have an overnight. That'd just be... gross, and completely inappropriate, and--"

"Can I talk to you again? In your office?"

He looks like a man just sentenced to his painful execution. His response is a strangled, "Yeahhhhh," one that precedes a death march back into his office with a stern-looking Jan following.

When the door closes behind the two of them again, Jim swivels back around to stare at Dwight, eyes wide.

"Admit it. You're going to miss this when you're gone."

"I haven't even _accepted_ anything."

"That's too bad."

"You're not going?" Phyllis asks, in that soft-Phyllis voice.

"No, Phyllis, I'm not going anywhere. ATTENTION," he commands, standing up, garnering the focus of every office employee. "Recently it has come to my attention that there may have been some rumors spread--"

Pam cuts in, "Dwight's moving to Missouri to go make bobblehead dolls."

"_NO._ That is a fabrication! I have no intention, what-so-ever, to leave this company."

"Ever?" Jim wonders.

"_EVER,_" Dwight declares.

"What about retirement?"

"Not happening."

"You're not going to retire?"

"Never."

"You," Stanley decides, "have got to be the most asinine fool I have ever come across, and that's including my father-in-law. He builds brick fences."

Ryan decides to join in the conversation from somewhere in the back of the room: "Wouldn't that just make them brick walls?"

"I am never retiring," Dwight says, "because I believe in a little thing called _LOYALTY_. You might want to find a dictionary and look that word up, Stanley."

"I'll do that right now," Stanley drawls.

"Good. Be it of note, children," Dwight tells the entire office again, "I cannot be swayed by offers from other companies. By congratulatory emails. Here I began, here I shall fall."

It's silent. The air is heavy with his declaration. An almost tangible mist of allegiance and dedication hangs thick.

But then, "WOW," Jim says, emphasizing it just so. "That was _really_ dramatic."

With a huff, Dwight sits back down. "Shut up, Jim."

"I feel like I should clap, or toast, or make some kinda follow-up speech."

Dwight just jolts the mouse at his computer a little, making his screensaver disappear. He has it set to appear after five minutes of idle time, which is not only good for the security of his privacy, but it's an energy saver as well.

Yet another faceless well-intention he provides Dunder Mifflin with.


End file.
